


How to Kidnap a Child (With Their Consent)

by SandrC



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, At the Mountains of Dadness AU, Gen, He just had a happier childhood, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ron is Autistic, Ron is still a strange man, The Wilson Family Torus, Willy Stampler is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26196037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: "Hildy Russet of the San Dimas Defender! What's the scoop?" The tinny chipper voice of Hildy chirped over the phone. Stud let out a soft exhale and smiled."HeyHildy, it’s me.”The speed at which Hildy covered the mouthpiece of the phone and barked muffled orders at someone in the room with her was wild. Moreso was the sheer manic glee in her voice when she slipped back to talking to Stud. “Studly Stampler,you old so-and-so! To what do I owe the pleasure?”“You remember how I was keeping a close eye on Willy?” He shifted the phone between his ear and his shoulder so his hands were free. From inside his rucksack, he pulled out his notebook and pen and flipped to the earliest blank page and pressed his pen to it."Uh-huh? How’sthatgoing for you?”(Or: Stud Said "my child now")
Comments: 32
Kudos: 57





	How to Kidnap a Child (With Their Consent)

**Author's Note:**

> A labor of love finally done. I work up one day and was like "what if Stud stole and raised Ron?" and then it became something cute.
> 
> For context re: OCs
> 
> Amanda Close (borrowed from bobadeluxe; Meryl's daughter and Glenn's mom)  
> Sigourney Wilson (the unnamed mom of Darryl and Casey)
> 
> Stud/Meryl is because of bobadeluxe. It's aces my guy. Lesbian Hildy coz her and Stud are MLM/WLW solidarity.
> 
> Fuck Willy Stampler.
> 
> Hope yall love it.

Stud Stampler stood in a photobooth in the middle of Los Angeles, sweating through his argyle socks, while he waited for his call to go through. The sticky summer heat of California was never his favorite thing—he preferred the crisp autumns that could be found in the Pacific Northwest, as they were better for his old bones—but unfortunately, the person he was tracking preferred populated areas where someone missing didn’t mean much past a party too far. And _that_ meant that coastal California was prime real-estate.

He jammed a handful of coins in the phone slot, dialed, and waited. One tone. Two. _Three_. A click.

" _Hildy Russet of the San Dimas Defender! What's the scoop?_ " The tinny chipper voice of Hildy chirped over the phone. Stud let out a soft exhale and smiled.

" _Hey_ Hildy, it’s me.”

The speed at which Hildy covered the mouthpiece of the phone and barked muffled orders at someone in the room with her was wild. Moreso was the sheer manic glee in her voice when she slipped back to talking to Stud. “ _Studly Stampler, **you old so-and-so**! To what do I owe the pleasure?_”

“You remember how I was keeping a close eye on Willy?” He shifted the phone between his ear and his shoulder so his hands were free. From inside his rucksack, he pulled out his notebook and pen and flipped to the earliest blank page and pressed his pen to it.

“ _Uh-huh? How’s **that** going for you?_”

“ _Poorly_. Somewhere between Palo Alto and Vistas I lost the trail but I think he may be _somewhere_ in Southern California. That’s actually why I was calling you up. Gonna call in that favor you owe me.” Silence on both ends. “For the thing, with the, _uh_ —"

" _Yeah. The thing. **The thing**._" He could hear her knock into the base of the phone with her elbow. She inhaled, deeply, and her exhale crackled through the receiver. " _Alright. Well lucky for **you** , muckraking is a boring job and I'm always down to find something better to do. What you need?_"

"If you could track him down, I would appreciate it. _Any_ help, really, but the less I have to rely on being an unofficial and not very good gumshoe, the better. He knows what I look like and if someone looking like me starts asking for him..."

" _Oh **yeah** , no, I get that_." She tapped her pen against her desk, the sharp sound punctuating her thoughts. " _You call Robbie? Him and his wife settled down recently and you could always use someone who knows the area better than I do."_

"Robbie is a _swell_ guy and all, but muscle aside, I'd feel right _awful_ if I asked him to try and tackle something that might get him shot. He barely made it back the first time."

" ** _Mmm_** ," she hummed.

" _Besides_ ," he flipped to an earlier page and scribbled out a false lead, "you have access to like, the microfiche and such. Better person for information. No harm meant to Robbie. "

" _Of course not_."

"But _yeah_. Last place I saw him was Palo Alto, but he'd stopped leaving trails of animals years back and I think he knew I was looking so he slipped farther down. Couldn't find hide nor hair of anyone called Stampler in the area, but I _just_...I can't let him just _be_ out there but I hafta have concrete evidence, Hildy."

" _ **I know**. And I don't want him out and about **either** , judging from what you told me. I'll see what I can do._" He could hear her shift in her seat, the bounce returning to her voice. " _How would I get in contact with you?_ "

"I'll call back in, _uh_ , a week sound okay? Probably from another payphone, so you may be getting charged a bit."

" _You called my extension directly and its not enough that I'm hurting so, **yeah**. Call me back. One week and I'll send out a search if I don't hear from you in two. How's that sound?_"

"Sounds aces to me. Be safe."

" _You too, Stud_." And he hung up.

_Call Hildy in seven days_ , he wrote down. _Try somewhere near the northern coast? Keep ear out._ Then he capped his pen, stowed it and his notebook in his bag, and exited the booth, scanning the street before crossing.

All he had to do was wait.

* * *

Despite what Stud might've thought, finding Willy was less difficult when you knew him and his patterns. Four and a half days of searching netted her an adoption signing for a small child in Glendale by one William Stampler. From there she easily found that he owned a small place off of Drew Street. One bed, one bath, garbage California scrubland for a "back yard". Not a place she would expect the San Dimas Cat Strangler to live in, but she didn't claim to know Willy half as much as Stud did.

Now that she had half a box of bullshit to hand off to Stud—all xeroxed and handwritten copies of records as well as some fast phone calls to places nearby to figure if they'd seen a man matching his build around lately—she only had to _wait_. Wait and do her job.

_And_ see how her own son was doing. She hadn't called up her ex-husband in so many years. Maybe they'd finally managed to get a house near that nice man he'd been talking to. The one who was really into mindfulness and being one with the universe. _Hm_. She wrote down a reminder and stuck it in her planner next to the reminder that said _don't forget to send Amanda royalties_. Ah, _right_. That too. She underlined that reminder. _Twice_. Couldn't forget to shoot Meryl's kid some cash for more or less ruining her life.

Okay, so _Amanda's mom_ ruined her life by selling the story that she was the child of silent film star Meryl Streep for a quick sound three digits and Hildy had only helped a _little_. And it's not as if Meryl _himself_ ever really denied the claims. Nor was it terribly hard to draw the conclusion that a socialite in actor circles having an Asian-American child was the product of a passionate fling with one of the thirties most lusted after bachelors. At least _she_ was trying to at least make amends by way of a hefty royalty once every other month.

Didn't hurt that Meryl himself was pooling in on that royalty check to make up for being unable to actually provide for her and for missing her childhood.

(Though he _did_ say once that he was not fond of children. "They don't understand boundaries or fame, two things that are paramount to my existence." Old man sure was full of it, considering he owned a pre-copy of the Streep story with baby pictures of little Amanda that he kept framed on his bedroom wall.)

Anyway, _Amanda_. Poor doll had a kid. She needed the cash. And it staved off the guilt over her own failure as a maternal figure, so it did Hildy's heart good, in the most roundabout and selfish way. And she could keep slipping an aloof Meryl updates on how she was doing—even if he pretended like he didn't give a rat's ass about his lineage.

_Speaking of_ : his latest letter to her about Stud lay open on her desk. It was long and winding and smelled of his cologne. He complained about how his bed was cold and how he missed Stud so very much and if she could just tell that man to hurry up he would owe her, and a favor from _esteemed actor_ Meryl Streep was worth more than her weight in gold. She was still debating on whether or not she wanted to respond mock-indignantly or genuinely offer him an update on The Case.

Just as her nerves started to ramp up and her fingers were finding their way to her wrists—a habit left over from the shuddering feeling of film beneath her skin and a machine pulling it forth to feed the horrific thing beyond their comprehension—her desk phone rang. She nearly threw herself over her desk to snag the receiver off the dock.

"Hildy Russet of the San Dimas Defender! What's the scoop?" She held her breath. She needed it to be Stud. Anything to take her mind off the fear that he was dead...or _worse_.

" _ **Hey** Hildy, it's Stud_." His voice on the other line was winded and crackly, but the relief that surged through her almost hurt.

" _Studly Stampler_ you damn near gave me a _heart attack_ , waiting to call this long! I was about to get the fuzz over by your last location!" _God_ , she was relieved though.

" _Sorry, **sorry**. Just got a little caught up and was out of change. Had to bum around a bit. Anyway, did you find anything?_" He sounded relieved too, the soft sound of him shifting the receiver around a comfort. Hildy let out a breath she was holding and shook her head.

"Yes _and_ no. I don't know how long it's been since you laid eyes on lil Willy but the man has himself a kid."

Stud hissed. " ** _Oh_**."

"My reaction _exactly_. Adopted him in Glendale under the name William. Owns a place near there too, according to the records. Been about three months since he officially signed the papers. What're the odds on that?" She didn't finish the question. Too morbid to say out loud. Still, judging by the flipping sounds on Stud's end, he was searching his own notes.

" ** _Dammit_**."

"You worried for him? The kid?" She clarified.

" _I mean, **of course** but..._" Stud hemmed, still thumbing through his book, " _I was up in Glendale not one month prior. Missed him by a minute, at the least_."

"Oh, _Stud_."

" _Yeah?_ "

"You want his residence? Get that kid out of his reach?"

" ** _Shoot_**."

Hildy rattled off the street address. "I _also_ have a box full of shit _just for you._ Whenever you want. Just point me to an office and I'll have that in someone's hands faster than you can say 'pseduo-legally acquired evidence'. You and me, we're just old bones doing young blood work. Get you rest."

" _Pot, **kettle**_ ," she could hear him smile. " _I'll rest when **you** do_."

"I'm a workaholic, Stud. You're gonna _die_ before I stop working." It's an old joke. Well worn. " _But really_. Be safe."

" _I got a piece and good aim, Hildy. If **I** go, **he** goes_." It's a harsh thing to say but...neither of them would put it past Willy.

It wasn't like they had _evidence_ but...they did have it on good word. Good word and past performance with animals.

"So long as you have _something_ to take him at the knees if he gets too close." Hildy joked back. It's all she _could_ do, considering. "But _really_...Glendale work or do you want me to shoot this somewhere bigger in the county? Get the heavy guns on it? It would make _me_ feel better."

There was a long, pregnant pause before he spoke again. For a moment, Hildy thought she had lost him but he spoke before she could let the panic take hold of her. " _Two weeks_ ," Stud conceded, " _ **then** send it to the closest place that can hunt him down_."

"I'll hold you to it. Postage is on me."

" _ **Real** kind of you, like always_," she could hear him smile. It was the smile he wore when he thought no one was looking. The type that hid an ugly truth. A soft, padded lie of a smile.

"Now go save that kid. Don't want to think about _what_ that man has been doing to him, poor doll." She hoped he could feel her parting him on the shoulder, spiritually. She couldn't physically, but she could exude the energy and hope the digital sound of telephones carried it well enough.

" _ **Will do**. I'll call back in two weeks at the latest. Don't lose your head_."

" _Ha. Ha_." She rolled her eyes. "And you don't get caught pussyfooting around. That boy of yours may not be tall like you, but he's got the Stampler build. Broad. Hard to knock over with a can of paint."

" _Scout's honor_."

"You were _never_ a Scout."

" _ **True** , but I hold the honor near and dear_."

Silence. Hildy drummed her fingers on her desk, nervous, then she spoke up one last time. Her voice was lower, more tender, less exuberant, " _Do_ come home."

" _No promises_."

"Miss you, Stud."

" _Miss you too, Hildy. Talk to you later_." And he hung up.

Hildy listened to the dial tone for a nice long while before she set the receiver back on the dock. The droning noise was calming—a reassurance that time was real and that they were safe and that things could be imperfect without obsession—and listening to it was a habit she had no plan to ever break.

As soon as she placed it down, she pulled out a pen and started writing a response to Meryl. Better safe than sorry. And he deserved to know.

* * *

Ron Stampler played quietly in the front yard. _Sure_ , his dad said he wasn't allowed outside while he was gone and, _sure_ , he'd been in a bad way lately—something about work and calls and how messy it is—but it was summer and he was tired of being inside. And while Ron didn't have many toys— _any_ really, frivolity and _pansy ass bullshit_ and also _shit costs money_ —he had his imagination. He could pretend. He was good at that.

So Ron pretended he was a zookeeper watching over animals stalking their way through a savannah. He didn't know what animals were in a savannah but he knew that they had to be big, so the zookeeper was quiet as he watched, so as not to startle them. Just as the zookeeper was talking about the new baby cat—lion? Lion is an animal in the zoo—a shadow fell over Ron and he looked up, fear locking his little body into place.

Thankfully, it wasn't his dad. It was just a very tall old man with scarring all over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He had a strange and sad look on his face and, as Ron continued to observe him—his game paused because this stranger was more interesting than the baby lion the zookeeper just found—he knelt down in the dry dirt of their front yard and gestured with his hand at their house.

"You live here, kid?" He had a weird way of talking. His words all lived in the back of his mouth, like they didn't like the sun.

Ron nodded his head then remembered what his dad told him all the time. Speak when spoken to. " _Yessir_ ," because manners. You always gotta say sir. It's the rules.

The old man smiled again and tucked his chin down at Ron himself. "You having fun?"

_Was he?_ He _had_ been having fun but was he _currently_ having fun? Well, talking to a stranger was a new experience and that was _inherently_ interesting and interesting things _could_ be fun. But was he _having_ fun? Ron just opted to shrug. "Dunno." Dad said he wasn't allowed to say that. Said it was a fucking cop out.

Dad wasn't here and something about this man made him feel much safer than dad made him scared.

"My name is Stud," the man said. Ron watched him and his worn shoes and his sweaty, scratchy face with his light smile and his weird scared way of speaking. "What's your name?"

Dad said to not talk to strangers. Dad _also_ didn't like it when he didn't respect his elders. Ron erred on the side of caution. "Ron."

"Nice to meet you, Ron. What were you playing?" The man sat down, getting his nice pants dirty. Ron felt a flash of fear lance through him. Adults don't get on his level unless something is bad.

" _M'sorry_ ," he squeaked out. "Whatever I did, I'm _sorry_." The man's face pinched and Ron was certain he messed up. Dad always said he talked too much, was too soft, wasn't strong enough. _Obviously_ this man was here to take him back, like dad always threatened.

The orphanage was an _awful_ place. Ron would rather _die_ than go back to the orphanage. He would do anything to never go back. That's why he tried _so hard_ to be good. If he was good, he could stay.

He wasn't being good by being outside when his dad told him to not to. So now he was being taken back.

Ron knew he was crying. He knew that Stud was gonna give him a reason to cry so he cried harder. Big fat tears—the type that made dad angry—and full body sobs. But unlike dad, Stud looked sad as well. He raised his hands and Ron flinched, waiting for the eventual blow.

The blow that never came.

Instead, Ron felt two strong arms around his shoulders. He felt Stud press his chin into the crook of his neck and let out a low hum. "No, kid, _I'm sorry_. You didn't do _anything_ wrong."

That was confusing. See, Ron was a kid. An ungrateful shit. And fucking brats couldn't do _anything_ right, no matter how hard they tried.

So why was Stud—an adult, someone he didn't know, who was bigger and stronger and smarter than him— _apologizing to him?_

It didn't make any sense.

Ron cried _harder_.

" _There_ you go. Let it out." Stud was being _so nice_. He was talking so quietly and holding Ron loose so he could escape if he wanted to and he was hugging him and it had been a _long_ time since Ron had been hugged **_and_** — "It's _okay_. I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe."

" _Sorry_!" He choked out around wracking coughs. " ** _I'm sorry_**."

"You don't _need_ to be sorry. Don't worry about it."

"M'getting your nice clothes all wet!" Ron pulled away from Stud and knuckled at his eyes. When the spots left his vision—his fists were covered in dirt that was now chunky globs of dark brown mud which probably left streaks on his skin—he could see Stud still kneeling there, smiling at him. It wasn't even like the type of smiles the social workers have—the type where it feels like a paper machê mask they put on—or the type that dad wears—the one that is a warning instead of him being actually happy—but something more open. Stud's smile is sunshine parting through the clouds, leaving a warm spot on the bare carpet that Ron could lay in and appreciate. He liked _that_ smile.

He also saw that Stud's clothes— _despite_ being dirtied by sitting down with him and his awful crying—were already pretty dirty. He took a few greedy breaths and tried to calm down.

When he could breathe without it coming in scribbles, Stud nodded. He had been waiting patiently for him— _for him?_ —and was looking for Ron to give him the go-ahead. Ron sniffled and scrubbed at his cheeks. Dad wouldn't like it if he was dirty in the house. He would need to hose off and then dry off soon. Before the sun sets.

" _Sorry_ ," he said again, quieter. "You, _uh_ , asked me what I was playing?" Stud nodded, smiling. Ron wanted to lay in that smile like the sunbeams. It felt good. He wondered if _this_ was what a smile was _supposed_ to feel like. Not a warning or a delay or an indication of someone he couldn't trust, but someone who was happy. "...I forgot. _But_ ," he reached out, trying to not sound _too_ desperate, "do you want to play business with me?"

Stud tilted his head and there was that weird-sad look on his face again. Adults always got that look when they found out Ron was adopted or that dad was _his dad_ or that he couldn't read too good or when he repeated facts his dad told him. It's not _sad_ -sad, but like...cloudy and cold and before rain but _not_ rain. Weird-sad. Most of the time Ron could easily ignore the weird-sad look because they never stuck around but...he _wanted_ Stud to stick around. He didn't like that he looked weird-sad.

" _Sure_. How do we play?" The feeling that flooded Ron was something he hadn't felt in a long time. Last time he was _so excited_ , it was the day dad took him home—but that quickly faded. He hoped _this_ excitement stayed.

Ron walked Stud through a scenario—he was a businessman with things to sell and Stud was a customer—and they spent several minutes just playing in the front yard. It wasn't until Stud let out a soft groan and leaned back, popping his back by overextending his spine, that Ron realized how late it was. The cold flush of panic sucked the heat from his body and he stood up sharply.

Dad was going to be home soon? _Maybe_. He tracked the sun in the sky but the sky was cloudy. _He'd lost track of time_. Dad could be back any minute now. He was going to see him breaking rules. They might have to move. _It was all his fault._

He felt a broad hand on his back and curled in on himself some more but the hand didn't leave. It remained a steady pressure and he could hear scared words repeat, "Breathe in, _slow_. Hold. Breathe out, _slow_. C'mon Ron, do it with me. In, _hold_ , out. Do you hear me?"

It would be rude to not answer him. Dad didn't like it when he didn't answer. Maybe if he was good, dad would be less angry with him. Ron nodded and tried to breathe like he was being told. A slow, shaking inhale. He held it for so long that his ears started ringing. A yawning exhale. _Repeat_.

"You know, I used to have this issue _all_ the time. When I was auditioning, sometimes it would get real hard to breathe and people would get all fuzzy around the edges." Stud was talking to him as he breathed. Just chattering. Speaking to fill space. It gave him something to focus on. " _Thankfully_ , Meryl, who's a genuine actor and _everything_ , he taught me breathing exercises like this for when it's hard. It makes your brain calm down because it's focusing on breathing right instead of the scary stuff. Works out in the end, doesn't it?"

" _Y-yessir_." _Not really_ , but dad always liked being told he was right. He focused on breathing for a little longer, marveling in how his fingers buzzed with energy and he could taste his tongue.

Stud continued. "I guess I haven't been honest with you and _that's on me_ but, Ron, I actually know your dad." If he saw how Ron tightened up—it was a trap? It was _always_ a trap. No adult is _ever_ that nice without reason. Now he was gonna tell dad and dad was gonna be upset and _and **and**_ —he didn't comment. Instead he continued, his large hand still on Ron's back as he tried to school his breathing back into normal. "I'm his uncle. Your _great_ uncle, if we're talking about it like that. And Willy...I just _worry_ about him."

Ron tried to remember if dad had ever talked about his dad or his family. He once got real angry and said Ron was too like his pansy-ass uncle to be _any_ good but...otherwise he didn't talk about his home and his family. Dad was quiet about personal things.

"But I'm not here for him. I _was_ , I mean," Stud rubbed the back of his neck, finally taking his hand off of Ron's back. "But _you._..you're more important."

How did he expect him to trust him? _He knew his dad!_ He knew his dad and was gonna _tell_ on him and he was gonna get in trouble **_and_** —

Stud must've seen Ron glaring at him because his face did a weird series of movements. Like he was thinking about the emotion he wanted to express. His face got all twisty and then squinchy and then crunchy and it finally settled on _sad_. Not weird-sad, but _genuine_ sad. _Hurt_ , maybe. It was an expression Ron had only seen in the mirror. It loosed something in Ron's chest, untying a knot of scribbly wiggly emotions and feelings into a puddle of yarn that sat in his ribcage.

"Ron, I _know_ this must be scary but I won't do _anything_ you don't want me to. So I'm asking you: _do you want to go with me?_ We can get your things and leave. You'll never have to see Willy again and you'll be safe." Was he being honest? He wasn't smiling, he had that sad look on his face, the mirror one, and he was leaning away. He was giving Ron space. "You don't _have_ to say yes but...this may be the only chance I have. Willy...he doesn't _like_ me much. I didn't do a very good job raising him after my brother died but...I gotta take responsibility for my mistakes. Even if they aren't mine. Not really."

_Dad was gonna be home soon_. Maybe. If he caught him outside he would be mad. Dad being mad wasn't a good thing. It was _bad_. It _always_ was Ron's fault coz Ron was a bad kid. He didn't _like_ being a bad kid but he _was_. Even the orphanage didn't want him. They were so happy to see him gone—paper machê and warnings and money passing from hand to hand—and _now_ he was being _asked_ if he wanted to go somewhere. Be away from dad? The one person who _wanted_ him?

But Stud was _nice_. Not fake-nice either, like the kids at the orphanage when adults came by and they wanted to be picked to have a home, but _real_ nice. He played with Ron and didn't complain about the dirt or call Ron weird or laugh at him. Stud tried to help him calm down and didn't get mad like dad did when he cried. Stud _never_ grabbed Ron and some small part of him knew that if he stood up and ran, Stud wouldn't chase him.

Did he want to go with him? Or did he just not want to be here when dad got back?

"What if I change my mind?" He asked.

Stud thought about it for a second. "If you change your mind, then I'll bring you back here and I'll talk to Willy _for_ you. Make sure he knows it was _my_ idea. That sound okay to you?"

"What if...what if I'm _not good enough_?"

" _Ron_ ," Stud said his name like an apology. No one _ever_ apologized to him. Ron looked him in the eyes, tracing the dark scars that run across his eyes like a superhero mask, "you're enough as you are."

_And he meant it._

Ron nodded. "Okay."

" _Okay?_ " Stud seemed surprised. Why was he surprised? Did he expect Ron to say _no_? Why would he expect that? Why would he ask if he didnt expect a certain answer? "Okay. Do you...need to get your things?"

Ron shook his head. "I can grab my clothes if you want but I don't have a lot. We don't have a lot of money. I was 'spensive."

Stud's face does that weird crinkle thing again, where he doesn't seem like he knows what emotion he wants to wear, but it settles on a frown that, somehow, Ron knows isn't meant for him. "If you want to, you can. I'll be right here."

"You _promise_?"

Stud smiled sunshine and held out his pinky for Ron. " _Promise_."

Ron linked his pinky with Stud's. It's the first time he's done this but he knows how a pinky promise works. Now Stud _has_ to hold to it or he'll lose his eyes. Ron turned around and darted inside to grab his bag.

Home was cold and empty. It was mostly because dad liked to keep things sparse. Utilitarian. Didn't like frivolous wastes of cash. Said decorations were for pansies and women. Neither of them were _either_ , so home was white walls and off-white carpet and a table with two chairs and a recliner. Home was a mattress on the floor and two blankets and a pillow. Home was three sets of clothes in a bag and food in the fridge and one bar of soap for everything and astringent cleaners that made Ron's eyes water and his hands crack but dad was always less angry if the house was spotless when he got back. Home was one glass, one plate, one coffee mug, one set of mismatched silverware, and half a dozen rats in the wall that Ron snuck snacks to because they were his friends.

Ron's part of home fit all in one bag and he slung it over his shoulder, grunting as the sturdy cardboard lining of his duffel bag slammed into his ribs. He was going to leave the pillow and sheets. Those belonged to dad. Nothing else was his, so he didn't get to take it. Still, Ron knelt down and pressed a hand against the wall where he knew some of the rats lived.

"I'm leaving now," he said to them. "Be safe. Don't let dad see you. Give your babies a kiss for me." Then he stood up and locked the door behind him. Dad had a key and he would be mad if Ron didn't lock the door after leaving.

Stud was still there, waiting, with his superhero mask scars and his dirty clothes and his sturdy shoes. He got a weird-sad look on his face when he saw Ron but it changed to a sunbeam-smile and he nodded. "Are you ready?"

Ron nodded. "Said goodbye and everything."

"Alright then. Let's take you home with me then?" He held out his hand and Ron took it. Ron's hand was swallowed up in his big, calloused grip but it was warm and loose. It told him he could leave any time he wanted.

He didn't want to.

" _Please_."

They walked to a bus stop, hand-in-hand, and Ron finally felt free.

* * *

Meryl Streep would rather _die_ than admit that he didn't know how to express his emotions with any form of sincerity. It was what he called _a character trait_ and what other people often called _fucking annoying_. Never mind them, however, because _he's_ the one who mattered. Him and those he considered his family.

That strange collection of people had only grown over the years and, while a much younger Meryl might have had some _complaints_ about the eclectic zoo of people he kept company with nowadays, _current_ Meryl was rather content. Hildy was always a grounding force and the only one who ever answered his missives in the traditional manner. Robbie and Sally were a lovely couple and their son Frank was a strapping young lad who was doing well for himself in the trade industry. Amanda, while he wasn't necessarily in her life, was someone he watched grow into a beautiful young woman with no small amount of pride. And Stud, of course, was his everything and more—though they had to be a little careful in public for _obvious_ _reasons_.

So it was only a _small_ surprise when Stud came back from hunting down his absolutely terrible nephew with _a completely different child_. A _literal_ child, as opposed to the young adult that Willy Stampler _would_ be.

"So you _kidnapped_ him?" Meryl asked, waving a hand at the twig of a child. His mousy hair was thin and scruffy and his eyes blinked owlishly behind cokebottle glasses too big for his head. He was wearing absolutely filthy clothes, his ratty sneakers threadbare, and there was a yellowing bruise on the side of his head, near his ear.

"I _asked_ ," Stud protested but _no_ , Meryl was having _none_ of this.

"It's _still kidnapping_ , Stud. You _kidnapped_ a child."

" _You_ remember how Willy was. Would _you_ want him to have power over a child?" Oh, he was _so_ passionate. If it weren't for the new addition to the Stampler-Streep household, Meryl would shut him up with a kiss. As it were, he simply shook his head.

Trust him to be the rational one. "We're going to get looked at _more_ now, you know. A biracial couple of men and their small child that looks _nothing_ like them. But at least we have extra arms to help with the groceries." _God_ , he could feel Stud beaming at him. "Now what's his name?"

"Ask him yourself." _Damn him_. Meryl sighed and walked over to where the boy was sitting, legs swinging back and forth as he held his duffel bag in his lap.

"Hello there. What's your name?" He asked, sotto voice.

The kid tilted his head a bit, eyes focused on a spot just beyond his shoulder, and said, "Ron."

"Well, Ron, my name is Meryl. Welcome home, however long you plan on staying. Let's get you set up, _shall we_?" And the poor thing burst into tears. Behind the kid's shoulder, Stud shrugged apologetically and Meryl just patted him on the shoulder softly. What a strange addition to an already strange family.

* * *

Carol Danvers was _basically_ a member of the Wilson family by proxy. It wasn't _just_ that she had been dating Darryl for almost a year— eight months and two weeks, not that _anyone_ was counting—but also that she and Casey got along like a house on fire. Still, it was _very_ strange the lengths to which Darryl went to keep her from coming by the house during family functions and holidays.

"I'm not _embarrassed_ of them," he explained when she pressed him for the reason. His face had gone that shade of pink it turns when he's genuinely flustered. The one that spreads across his cheeks first and then the back of his neck. "It's _just_...there's a lot of them. And they're a _lot_. It's also really hard to explain."

" _So explain_ ," Carol pressed. And he tried to, but it certainly was a lot and even _she_ had to take a minute to try and process it.

It still didn't prepare her for coming to the Wilson Household Nondenominational Holiday Party and seeing the chaos firsthand.

When your boyfriend tells you "My grandpa was friends with the movie star Meryl Streep—but not the one in movies now, the Asian-American one from the thirties—and _also_ the legendary paranormal photographer Hildy Russet" you tend to just maybe think he's fluffing his ego.

But then Carol walked in on esteemed silent film actor Meryl Streep beating Casey upside the head with his ivory-handled cane for attempting to steal his snacks. And she turned to ask Frank Wilson _what the fuck_ was up, only to see him arguing with a very tall older man with impressive scarring across his eyes and nose about the exact _best_ way to cook a goose while Hildy Russet— _plus_ cute dress, _sans_ camera—offered scathing commentary.

So suffice to say, Carol was having one _hell_ of an evening. And that wasn't even the full guest list. In addition to the celebrities and the Wilsons, there was also a tall Asian-American woman having a healthy debate with Sigourney Wilson about _something_ inane. There was also some reedy looking musician type standing in a corner sucking on a bottle of cheap beer.

Thankfully for Carol, Ron tried to help elaborate on the various guests and their relations to everyone.

Popop Wilson, Meryl, Stud, and Hildy _apparently_ became close friends in '36 and kept in contact long after they had kids and that's who all was here. Meryl and Stud had been partners since then and they _acquired_ —Ron said _kidnapped_ , but Ron was strange so Carol quietly discounted his word choice—Ron. Popop Wilson had Frank and, while they weren't here, Hildy had an ex husband and son about Frank's age.

The woman arguing with Siggy was Amanda Close, Meryl's biological daughter—though he never got to raise her, she was always invited to the gatherings. The musician type was Bill Close, her husband, and he was _awful_. Their son was Glenn and he was tolerable in small doses—though Ron said he was calm and knew a lot—though he was hiding elsewhere on the property.

The place was alive with music and talking and, for all her trepidation upon seeing _actual famous people_ in her boyfriend's house—casually eating peanuts and bitching about music like real people do—she had a very fun time. Even got to beat Meryl and Hildy both in a game of Scrabble—though Hild swore up and down Carol was cheating and Stud _actually_ caught Meryl palming vowel tiles. And when everyone gathered to eat, they all sat on various surfaces and had rowdy conversations about various things.

( _Who knew_ that Stud had such strong opinions about the accessibility of theater or that Amanda Close felt like jukebox musicals were a cheap way to sell tickets?)

Overall, Carol would consider this a successful holiday, albeit a strange one.

* * *

PTA meetings were _always_ a slog. It's not as if Samantha hated going to them—she rather enjoyed seeing what Terry Junior was up to and she loved having some influence over how his academic track was handled—but they just took far too long for her liking. And, worse still, not too many of the other parents seemed set on making any new friends, so her having just moved to the area really did her and Terry Junior a disservice.

So it was to her _immediate_ surprise that one meeting, someone she'd never seen before sat down next to her, turned, and asked, "Do _you_ know what's going on because I am _lost_."

She laughed—stifled it, sure, but still—and turned to see who had decided to brighten her day on accident. He was a slight man, large glasses blowing his eyes out of proportion almost cartoonishly, his soft brown moustache quirked upward in a smile. He was wearing a button up shirt tucked into a long skirt and he had a PDA in his hand. He met her eyes and nodded. " _Well_ ," she said softly, "Oak-Garcia is currently pushing for a vegan option in the cafeteria but Anderson is insisting that this would open up avenues for things like gluten free and other dietary restrictions lunch options."

"How is that _bad_?" He asked, brows furrowed in genuine confusion.

" _It's not_ ," Samantha confided, "But Oak-Garcia is what we call _frustrating_ and Anderson is what we call _a killjoy_. If he was any more blond, he'd be a Karen."

"I thought his name was Anderson." This caused Samantha to have to stifle another laugh. Poor man was genuine though and that was endearing.

" _Yeah_ , that's true. I'm Samantha Harker, by the way. My son, Terry Junior and I recently moved to the area." She offered him a hand and he shook it with a form-perfect dad handshake.

"Ron Stampler. I'm sitting in for my brother. He and his wife are attending counseling and they needed me to be here." He nodded his head at the door. "Grant Wilson is my nephew?"

"You sound uncertain about that."

"My family tree is a _little_ knotted up," he admitted."But I love them regardless." He went quiet, trying to listen to the meeting, his brow furrowed in concentration as he took notes on his PDA.

Despite the strange attitude, there was something about this man that drew Samantha to him like a moth to the flame. She wanted to see more of him.

She elbowed him in the ribs and he let out a soft squeak of surprise. "Would you like to go get coffee after this? I'd _love_ to know more about your extended family."

His face almost visibly lit up with joy, his hands quietly drumming against his legs. "I mean, I don't like coffee, but _sure_. I could probably get a hot cocoa or something. And I can show you the best place to get food around here, since you're new."

"It's a _date_ then!"

He nodded, "It's a date."

Maybe moving to San Dimas wasn't such a bad idea after all.


End file.
